


My Love Is As Sharp As A Needle In Your Eye

by MissMoochy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Human, Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dark Crowley (Good Omens), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Hiding in Plain Sight, Kidnapping, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Obsession, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-01-27 08:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21389383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: Human AU. London is full of cold, uncaring people. Crowley loathes them all. But when he catches sight of the beautiful Aziraphale, a true gentle soul of infinite kindness, he thinks perhaps he is capable of love after all. And if the mysterious bookshop owner rejects him? Well, Crowley will love him enough for the both of them. ON TEMPORARY HIATUS.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens)
Comments: 124
Kudos: 220





	1. No-one Has Ever Given Me Anything

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a Londoner myself but even we make mistakes. If there's any errors in this, do let me know and I'll change it.

He hated London. No, that’s not true. He loved London. _Cut me open and I bleed the Thames, when you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life,_ _maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner that I love London town _and all that. Yes, he knew all the sayings. He loved London, he did, but the problem is, London is crawling with people and many of them are worse than the rodents that share our fair town with us.

He didn’t hate crowds exactly, in fact, he rather liked the crush of people, all these bodies, male, female, black, white, fat, thin, all of them moving in one direction, all those heads turned, scurrying onwards like animals trying to outrun the dying evening light. It made him feel connected, part of something bigger than himself. Sometimes, another person’s hand would brush his as they swung their arms while walking, or they would slip on a loose tiling stone and stumble and he could throw out an arm to steady them, and he’d pretend, just for a few seconds, that they meant something to him. That he meant something to them. Perhaps they were his lover, his grown-up son or daughter. A friend. But then they’d steady themselves and keep walking, or his and their paths would diverge, and he’d never see them again. Which was fine. All part of the London life, isn’t it?

Crowley had been blessed (or perhaps cursed?) with the ability to blend into crowds with ease. It was like he was invisible, his agile body could find gaps in the crowds and he’d sneak in, weaving his way through bodies until, if he wished, he was at the very front of the crowd, leading the way. This was useful in the subway.

It was 8:45am and he was catching a train. He liked catching random trains, not even looking at the yellow letters on the front of the locomotive, just tap his oyster and jump on. It felt exciting, although that excitement normally ended when he would go through the whole journey just to realise he was in bloody Northolt of all places. Nothing to do there. But then, there was nothing much to do anywhere, was there? Don’t him wrong, London had a lot to offer - cocktail bars, museums, nightclubs, a few parks. But nothing that interested him. He wasn’t sure what it was that did interest him, but he knew he’d know if he found it.

But anyway. The train. 

He was at Green Park Station, to get the Victoria Line to Brixton. He was queuing at the ticket machines, and there were bodies in front of him, bodies behind. The woman in front of him tapped her card on the reader, the gates opened and she stepped through. Crowley was next. He withdrew his oyster card, blue with the familiar white stripe on it and tapped it on the reader. The machine beeped two notes to say the card hadn’t worked. Crowley frowned and wiped it on his sleeve. Tried again. Beep beep. Damn. He knew it had money on it. He hadn’t accidentally put it through the washing machine again, had he? He tried a third time, trying to catch the eye of one of the disinterested TFL staff. 

“Come on, get a move on!” Called a man a few bodies behind him.

Crowley glowered and tried again.

_ Beep beep. _

“Right, that’s it, I’m coming over!” the bloke snapped, and actually stepped out of the queue to approach Crowley. He was shorter than Crowley but powerfully-built, his biceps alone looked thicker than Crowley’s waist. Crowley looked down at him through his sunglasses in what he hoped was arrogant indifference.

_ Beep.  _ The machine chirped happily, accepting a card. But it hadn’t been Crowley’s. He turned with difficulty to see the person who’d been queuing behind him. A small, neat man, with a pleasing, rosy face and laughing eyes. Everything about him looked soft, the platinum blond curls, his chubby cheeks and his warm cream coat. The man offered Crowley his card, murmuring “I have dozens of these.” and Crowley accepted it, wonderingly, taking a backwards step through the gate. The gate closed and he saw his Good Samaritan withdrew another travel card from his pocket and lightly tap it on the reader. He hurried through and headed for the exit, not sparing Crowley another glance.

“Wait!” Crowley shouted, but the man had already disappeared. Out of all the heartless bastards scurrying through the stations in London like the rats below them, one man had helped Crowley. That perfect face, alight with gentle good humour, that sweet, musical voice. He was an angel, a living breathing angel and seeing him had stirred up something in Crowley’s chest. His heart, for so long had been fulfilling its primary function of pumping blood and oxygen through Crowley’s veins now felt heavy in his chest. Weighed down with emotion, he watched the figures darting to their destinations, and stood, quite still and somehow not seeing anything. His heart felt new in his chest like it had received some higher purpose, it felt foreign to him, but it was a welcome change. He was aware of it in a way he hadn’t been before, now he felt like its primary function was to love. For the first time in his life, he felt connected to another human being and he knew he wouldn’t rest until he could find this man and repay him for his kindness.  
  



	2. I Am A Ghost And As Far As I Know, I Haven't Even Died

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley goes home to take care of his "family" and discovers a way to track down his Good Samaritan.

Crowley stumbled home, later that evening, laden down with shopping. If he’d known he was going to shop, he’d have taken the Bentley, it had a big boot that could have made light work of the bags from Tesco. An odd quirk he had was, whenever putting shopping in his car, he always put a couple of bags on the passenger seat, and only then would he fill the boot. He hated sitting beside an empty seat. 

He struggled with his key, juggling carrier bags with thin handles that bit at his wrists until he managed to get the door open enough to slip inside. He’d made a few stops, including the specialist pet shop, so he got out a bag filled with something small and furry.

Crowley’s office was perpetually dark, he liked to say he kept the curtains drawn so that the sun didn’t bleach the furniture, but really, he preferred his rooms being swathed in shadows because it made the rooms look smaller. When he’d first attended the viewing for the stylist Mayfair flat, it had been nothing more than empty rooms, but those rooms were filled with potential. He could fill it with whatever his heart desired, his records, his clothes, his shoes, Beelzebub’s tank, his plants. It was only when he’d properly moved in that he’d realised he had more space than even he could fill. Well, that’s fine, he could just find somebody to cohabit with him, couldn’t he? Except it didn’t quite work out like that.

His office was where he sometimes worked from home, he found he was more productive when he was sat at his desk, polished so well he could see his own face staring back at him. He felt regal sitting in his chair, it was more of a throne really, an antique. This was the chair of a Man Who Did Things. To the side of his desk was a glass tank, and it was this that he approached, waggling the bag enticingly.

“Beezy? You up?” He tapped on the glass, but only gently. He couldn’t wait for her to wake up, he wanted to tell her about his day before his mood changed again.

The snake lifted its head lazily, and Crowley smiled. She was gorgeous, flawless in every way. He couldn’t understand why people disliked snakes, they’re beautiful. If he was an insipid teenage girl, he’d feel inclined to say that snakes are his spirit animal. But he wasn’t, so instead, he waved the vacuum-packed dead mouse at her, knowing she probably wouldn’t be able to identify it through the glass anyway.

“Sorry, Beez, I know you like frogs but they were all out. What kind of shop runs out of frogs,” This was said as he struggled with the packaging. He could never get his limbs to work. All long and gangling, fingers that didn’t bend quite right, hips that locked or an ankle that sometimes buckled. Ugh, he was useless. “Maybe there was a big snake convention in town, pythons, Cobras, all coming from miles around. And they needed catering. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” He finally got it open and grabbed the tiny dead field mouse by the tail. He opened the tank with his free hand. The trick was to dangle the mouse by the tail, make it oscillate just enough that Beelzebub would think it was still alive. She was a right little madam and would turn her nose up (well, she would if she had a nose) at anything she thought was dead.

She seized the waggling mouse and pulled it from his grip, protectively gathering it up in her coils. He liked it when she did that, he would catch the flash of red on her belly. She was so beautiful. His biggest fear was somebody finding out he had her, he’d bought her in an auction that he wasn’t sure was strictly legal. And that’s why he could never let anybody in his flat. That’s what he told himself anyway.

She made short work of the mouse and he watched her adoringly. He knew it was a long shot that she would ever allow him to touch her. And she was venomous so sticking his hand in there wasn’t a smart idea. But sometimes, he’d stroke the glass and imagine he was stroking her scales. He remembered when he first got her at the auction, she must have been drugged because he gently touched her, wrapped his fingers up in her coils and she’d sleepily watched him. It had felt almost spiritual. He knew he would love her forever.

Crowley perched on the end of his desk, where he could watch her. “I met someone today. A man. He helped me at the station. He’s not just nice, he’s _ perfect, _ he’s an angel, but you know, this is a really big thing for me because people don’t notice me normally-”

Beelzebub burrowed under her bedding.

“There’s no need to be like that! I know it’s scary but this could be a good thing. You and I, lady, need to get out there, start meeting people. And snakes. Things will change for us, you’ll see.”   
  


There was no response from his pet, so he tutted, and left the room. He flicked the light off as he left. He liked being the thing to bring light into her life.

* * *

After he’d stowed the food shopping away, Crowley spent a happy hour with his other true love. He attended to his plants, pruning, misting, and then yelling at a fern. The damn thing was curling into itself, probably needed more light. Normally, this would be grounds to destroy it, but instead, he found himself muttering something reassuring to it, and placing it in a slightly more sunny part of the room. He could almost see it heave a sigh of relief and that made him pause. He’d never been merciful to one of his plants before. Perhaps that angel-faced beauty at the station had rubbed off on him. Perhaps Crowley was capable of kindness. The thought made something glow in his chest and he left the room quickly. He didn’t want the flora to see him smiling, they might start being cheeky.

He hadn’t had work today, so normally, after a day of train hopping, he’d relax on the sofa with six to eight hours of television to unwind, until dinner and bed.

He’d watch anything, he loved nature documentaries, particularly ones about reptiles (he got really excited once when David Attenborough was talking about red-bellied black snakes - he recorded it on his phone to show Beelz later but she slept through the whole viewing) but he could watch whatever. He liked sitcoms although he preferred British ones. There was something wonderfully reassuring and life-affirming about watching a group of people sit in a bar on tv and chat and laugh, enjoy in-jokes with each other. He knew people said when you’re past education-age, you can’t make or keep friends as easily but the times he’d gone to bars, other people seemed to have no trouble. Of course, he’d stood there, a drink in hand, watching it all. He’d drink up and leave. Sometimes, he thought life would have been easier if he’d been born a woman. People approach women on their own, don’t they? That is to say, they approach pretty women. If Crowley had been born a woman, perhaps being tall and slender would have worked in his favour. Or maybe he would have been more miserable than ever.

No, no, he wasn’t miserable. He had a good job, an exotic pet, a lush plant selection that could make Kew Gardens want to pack up and go home...oh and a nice flat. And just this morning he’d been acknowledged. Somebody had seen him and seen a soul in need of help and had assisted him, and smiled at him so charmingly, had proved that Crowley wasn’t invisible, he was worth noting. And all because of a travel card. He smiled. The jacket was hung on the sofa next to him, so he fumbled in the pockets until he pulled out the blue card. There it was. A souvenir.

It was boringly generic - if the angel in the station had  _ dozens _ of cards as he’d said, he probably hadn’t bothered to register it. So it’s not like Crowley could use it to find the man.

_ Find the man? _

He couldn’t. Could he? It was a nice idea. And the guy would probably be grateful. What if he needed the card back? He probably didn’t but...it couldn't hurt to find him, return the card to him and thank him. Or at least give him some cash or something to say ‘ta’. Did he drink? He’s a Londoner right, he must drink. Perhaps he’d let Crowley buy him a drink? Not in a, not in  _ that  _ way but just in a grateful way. Yeah. the only problem was, how the hell was he supposed to find him?

He pushed the card back in his coat pocket, and as he did, his fingers brushed paper. That hadn’t been there earlier. Crowley spent a lot of time walking with his hands in his pockets, it gave his hands something to do. And that pocket had been empty earlier. Was - had the man slipped him a note? He’d been standing right behind him, he would have had the opportunity. Heart pounding, he plucked the crumpled paper out and inspected it in the lamplight.

Ah, shit. It was just a receipt. But wait, it was a receipt from a cafe, for a cup of hot chocolate. This wasn’t Crowley’s, it must belong to the man! Maybe it had been stuck to the card. He turned it over, read it backwards and forwards, just to make sure there hadn't been anything scrawled on it. Then he searched the rest of his pockets but found nothing that hadn’t been there since the night before. Just a receipt. But perhaps he could use it. It was for some cafe in SoHo, he’d never been there, it didn’t sound like a chain restaurant, probably some hole-in-the-wall place. But this was ideal! He could use this to track down his angel.

He put a DVD in, settling in to binge-watch a series of Doctor Who. he’d always felt like he rather resembled the actor who played the Doctor. And the monsters were good. But Crowley had always been blessed with a wild imagination, and soon, it wasn’t the Doctor and Rose running from a werewolf, it was Crowley and a different pretty blond. He let the sound of voices on-screen soothe him and he was eventually lulled to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll be a little while before he finds him again- remember, Aziraphale has no social media presence. I think I'll upload twice a week, maybe I'll do Mondays and Fridays in future? But I couldn't wait to put this one out!


	3. I'll Always Stay True To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley goes in to work. He's getting closer.

Crowley wanted to spend the day finding that cafe, but he had to go to work. Sometimes he’d fantasise about quitting, walking right into that bitch Dagon’s office and telling her what he thought. Perhaps shitting in her in-tray. He had savings and he figured he could probably live cheaply, he never had much of an appetite and food was simply fuel to him, nothing else. But he couldn’t. He had a little lady with a discerning palate for dead amphibians and a veritable forest of plants to care for. Both Beelzebub and the plants had to have carefully-regulated temperatures. He couldn’t do that in some god-awful flatshare.

So he drove to work, and yeah, okay, he might have kept an eye out for a blond head, but who cares? It was careful driving, that’s all.

* * *

The hours dragged slowly, in the office he shared with the new guy, Eric. Not  _ new _ new, but newest. Eric was a cool guy, he liked Doctor Who too, sometimes they’d play music in their office, quietly, lest Dagon hears. Eric was a goth, when he’d first seen Crowley with his snakeskin boots and tattoo, he’d excitedly asked him if he liked alternative music. Crowley had agreed at first, but you can’t spend eight hours a day with someone without them learning a few things about you, so he’d had to confess his love for Queen. It was fine, Eric had even insisted Crowley play a bit of it. It wasn’t his thing but he respected it. Crowley thought that was nice.

He sometimes wished they could talk more. Don’t get him wrong, they’d chat sometimes, but it was about what was on the telly or work, never anything stimulating. That was Crowley’s problem, he was too intense, even for a moody goth like Eric. whenever he met anyone, he wanted to overshare, spill his guts and have them spill theirs. Dig into the meat of their psyche and _ know  _ them, truly know them. But people don’t want that. They just want to talk about the latest episode of  _ Love Island _ or  _ the sugar tax on energy drinks _ and  _ isn’t it outrageous that you could get carded for buying a Red Bull? _ Crowley sighed over his computer.

Eric had voiced a few concerns about the company, new people tended to do that before they learned to accept their place in the cogwheel. Crowley had asked questions, too many really, when he’d been new and green, but a quick demotion had seen to that little spark of curiosity. He wanted to tell him to keep his head down, without making it sound like they were in some dystopian workhouse. But he had the feeling Eric was going to quit soon. He wished it didn’t bother him. But the truth is, he’d got used to sliding into his seat and hearing a chirpy “Good Morning!” which he could then return with the same word, or with a grumpy “What’s so good about it?” and hear a chuckle in response. Having someone say “I’m popping to Greggs, you want anything?” and Crowley never did want anything but it meant a lot that Eric still asked him every time. Eric hadn’t said the words _ I’m going to quit _ but the implication was there. Quitting for a moral reason. Boring. But he couldn’t blame him.

“Crowley, have you ever met the CEO?”

That was another thing Crowley appreciated. Eric actually called him by his last name. Whenever Crowley was introduced to anyone (this only happened at work, of course) he’d give his full name and insist “Call me Crowley.” Dagon never did, she’d always say _ “Anthony.” _ It bugged him for a reason he couldn’t identify. Perhaps it was to do with being heard. Knowing that somebody had stored away a little piece of info in the tiny Anthony J. Crowley file in their brain. Just a little post-it note on the front of the file that says  **PREFERS TO BE CALLED CROWLEY. ** Crowley didn’t feel like an Anthony. Of course, Dagon’s real name wasn’t Dagon but every day, at 5pm, she’d look at her watch as all the employees were filing out and scoff “Ugh, that’s another day gone,” Crowley liked that he and Eric had a secret nickname to use when speaking about her. It felt like an in-joke.

“CEO? Nah, Dagon interviewed me. I’ve met some of the higher-ups. Why?”

“People say he’s a real -” Eric glanced around and okay, that was too paranoid even for Crowley. Nobody bothered the two computer geeks in the back office anyway. “- bastard,” Eric finished.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, but he’s a bastard who pays our bills so...oh, how was it going with that bit of stuff you were seeing before?”

He was going off script here, but then again, it had been Eric who’d first brought it up, that he’d met a girl. He remembered that day because he remembered absorbing Eric’s story on how he and his new squeeze had met. Sitting on different tables at a Starbucks and their eyes had met. They’d both been drinking the same frappucino and the rest was history. Crowley had spent the rest of the day imagining himself in that position but he was Eric and the girl was some faceless, genderless paper doll who looked at him lovingly and found him so very fascinating. It had made the Thursday pass quickly.

“Yeah, we’re moving in together!”   


Crowley spat out his mouthful of coffee. “Al-already?” This wasn’t good. If Eric had somebody to rely on, this girlfriend, he’d definitely quit. She wouldn’t want him working here. Unless she got pregnant, then they’d need the extra income. He pricked up his ears.

“You can’t hesitate with these things, man. We’re not getting any younger, the planet’s fucked. Everyone’s on their phones now, nobody meets up. You gotta strike when you can, or you’re gonna die alone. I - I don’t mean  _ you, _ I mean you in the general sense-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean,” Crowley said, wincing at the harsh edge to his voice. Eric might think it was irritation, but really, it was panic. New Guy was right, Crowley was getting older. Older with every second. The big black-rimmed clock that sat above their heads seemed to tick louder at the dark swirling thoughts.  _ Tick.  _ He was single. _ Tock. _ He was friendless.  _ Tick. _ He was getting older.  _ Tock. _ He had to do something.

Crowley was suddenly treated to a horrible vision of lying dead in his flat, and Beelzebub dying of starvation. He altered the daydream so that with his last strength, he could bravely break her tank open so she could roam free. Buuuut then, she slithered over and ate his face. Oh, that’s kind of a downer.

Eric shuffled off to the men’s, probably too much Greggs coffee or maybe he wanted an excuse to whip out his phone and text his  _ girlfriend,  _ and Crowley suddenly remembered something else his colleague had said. People are always on their phones. What if the angel in the station had a social media presence? Finding him would be easier. And he knew of one place that he had visited. He touched his suit jacket pocket, where he’d carefully placed the folded-up receipt. It felt warm through his pocket, a little secret.

He opened an Incognito tab on the computer and got to work.

* * *

People tag themselves in locations, don’t they? So all Crowley had to do was check out people who had tagged the cafe.

He googled the place first, he was right, it was some tiny, privately-owned place that had somehow escaped gentrification and the chain restaurant takeovers. It was called  _ Rosaline’s _ and had a basic Wordpress website and a Google Maps entry as well as several social media accounts that were poorly-maintained. Crowley trawled through pages, until lunch, then ate his sausage roll at his desk, while going through more pages. Nothing. He wished he could get Eric in on this, he was smart and techy, but then Crowley would have to tell him what he was doing and that would start a discussion. Eric had felt entitled to asking Crowley invasive questions about his love life and his sex life, which might have been the teeniest bit acceptable if Eric would bloody offer to set him up with somebody. Anybody. Crowley had once said that all he wanted was for some higher power (God, most likely) to plonk a person down in front of Crowley and say “There. That’s your boy/girlfriend. They enjoy ** > activity1 < ** and ** > activity2 <** . Your anniversary is on the ** > date <** . Have fun!” Eric had laughed but Crowley hadn’t. He hadn’t been joking.

So, instead, he wasted hours of sifting through trivial Instagram posts before he remembered something: the Google Maps page.

He flipped back to the old tab and selected the images section of the Google Map entry. He heard Eric return but carried on. He scrolled through pages, half-heartedly responding with “Yeah,” and “Oh, of course,” to whatever Eric was talking about until -

_ There. _

He couldn’t believe he’d found him. What a stroke of good luck, somebody had uploaded a photo to their Google Map review and his angel was randomly caught in it. Okay, it wasn’t great quality. And there was an enormous baby in the foreground, blocking the view somewhat. But it was him.  _ Angel. _ He was sat, with one elbow on the table, propping his head up. His hand covered some of his cheek but his eye was unobscured. He was as beautiful as he remembered. Tousled blond curls, English Rose complexion. Crowley wished he could look lower, see that plump body but that fucking baby was in the way. He wondered if the angel had kids. He looked kind of tired and sad in the picture, although that could be because of anything. Crowley liked kids but he liked them from a distance. He didn’t know any personally. He wondered if Eric would let him meet his kid when his girlfriend got pregnant. He asked him this and Eric gave him a funny look. 

He clicked print and their ancient, infernal printer gasped for life, loudly whirring, spitting out the picture. Eric was closer so he grabbed the paper and glanced at it (Rude!) before handing it to Crowley.

“What’s that?” he asked. Crowley didn’t have to answer him, but he did anyway.

“Just a picture. Of my best friend,” he said, and the receipt in his pocket scorched him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Eric is, of course, Eric the demon in the show, who got killed by Hastur!


	4. Well, It's Only Bricks And Mortar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finds the bookshop and takes home a souvenir.

Five o’clock came the way it always did, the last hour seeming to be reluctant to arrive, rather like Crowley himself at social gatherings. But it couldn’t fight inevitability anymore, and at last the long black hand pointed heavenward, and the shorter hand pulled to the five. Crowley had become insanely good at packing up in seconds, he felt like James Bond assembling or disassembling a gun as he put his thermos away. 

He was on his way out of the door, throwing out a hasty goodbye to Eric, when his colleague stopped him, something he only usually did if he’d spotted Dagon lurking in the hallway. Then they’d hide in their office until she returned to her office and only then, they’d sneak out.

What’s up?”

“Uh, me and Ana -” (Must be his girlfriend) “-so, you know, we’re moving in next month and we were thinking of throwing a housewarming party. You could come. If you want. It’ll probably be the third week. Give us time to get settled in and stuff,”

“Next month?” Ah, now begins the awkward dance of pretending like he had stuff going on. _Hmm, some appointments here, shuffle that around, cancel that one -_

“It would be really cool if you did. You could bring your friend!” Eric nodded at the photo, still in Crowley’s hand.

“Uh, wh - I’ll try,”

“Awesome. See you tomorrow! Don’t forget, we got that meeting,”

“Yeah, see ya!”  _ Fuck.  _ He’d only gone and agreed to it, hadn’t he?

* * *

According to Google, Rosaline’s closed at half six and it was six now. It was in SoHo, not terribly far. He hot-footed it over there and when he arrived, panting with exertion, he could see through the window that the waitress was already stacking the chairs on the tables.

It was a little cafe, with yellow walls and mismatched wooden tables and chairs. It suited the angel, the warm colours, the soft furnishings (tartan and paisley) and the old-fashioned chalkboard, which informed him the soup of the day was potato and leek.

The waitress was mopping the floor now, and he made a beeline for her. Her hair was escaping its bun and her mopping was perhaps a little too forceful so he assumed she was stressed. That would be advantageous to him though.

“Excuse me, miss,”

“Yes, yes, how can I help you?” she spared him a glance but returned to her work.

“I was here the other day and I noticed one of the customers left a book behind. I’d like to return it to him but I don’t know his name. If I showed you a photo...” He thrust the photograph under her nose but she barely looked at it before she started talking.

“Yeah, he’s been here a few times. Gimme the book, I’ll make sure he gets it,”

“I’d rather not leave the book lying somewhere, it looks valuable and I wouldn’t feel right if I hadn’t given it to him personally,”

That got her attention. She leant her mop against a table and gave him an appraising look. “Where’s the book?”

“...in my car,”

“Look, you seem like a nice bloke but I can’t help you-”

Crowley sighed and held out a couple of folded up tens.

“-without telling you that he works in a bookshop in SoHo called A.Z Fells. Don’t know his name, he’s never given it. But that’s where he works,” she finished smoothly, pocketing the cash.

Crowley threw another ten on the table. “Thanks, you’ve been a help,”

* * *

He drove along, singing loudly to  _ Don’t Stop Me Now _ , the photo of the angel now stuck to his dashboard with Blu-Tac swiped from Eric’s desk. He’d had to fold the photo to cut out most of the big baby, which he felt bad about, but that baby was probably happy and loved, so what did it matter, really? People would probably love Crowley if he was a fat baby with dark eyes that resembled squashed currants in a mound of dough. He bet his angel had been a beautiful baby, just as pale and chubby-cheeked, maybe more so, but without the tiredness under his eyes. Maybe a little wisp of blond hair on his bald little baby head. Cute! 

When he got home, he was going to print off a duplicate of the photo, to store in his wallet. The original photo would stay in its rightful place, on the Bentley’s dashboard. Whenever some fucker honked at him or cut him off, he could look down at that sweet face and be reminded that there’s  **Good** in the world. But now, he had to go to the bookshop.

* * *

The funny thing was, he sort of knew the bookshop the waitress had been talking about. He must have passed it dozens of times, either walking or in his car. He knew this because when she mentioned, he saw red, literally, a flash of weathered red wood in his memory. So he knew he’d found it when he saw the old red shop, and he parked the car.

It was shut, which was disappointing but he supposed he should have expected it. But then, he considered as he caught sight of his reflection in his wing mirror, he didn’t look great right now. It was always really hot at work (the building’s radiators were insane) so he and Eric would always sweat buckets. He could feel his shirt sticking to him under his arms and at the middle of his back. And long workdays never failed to bring out his cantankerous side. He could feel the frown tightening his forehead and the miserable, downward slant on his mouth. He wouldn’t want to unleash that on his beautiful, sunny-faced angel. No, for their first meeting, he’d have to make sure he’d picked out a great outfit, shower, shave, gel his hair. Maybe make sure he shaved downstairs as well, in case their first meeting was so passionate, things migrated to the bedroom. He knew that was a long-shot, but hey, a guy could dream, right? If his angel was even gay. No, he had to be. That pretty face was designed with a male lover in mind.

Yes, it was certainly a good thing they wouldn’t meet today. He didn’t want to rush into things, lest he leave a bad impression. How could he impress him when he was still somewhat of a blank slate to him? Oh, he knew certain things about him. He knew he was kind. He knew he had a pretty smile, with dimples that lit up any room. A tinkling, graceful laugh. But that wasn’t enough. He needed extra information.

He had the genius idea of checking out the bins behind the bookshop. He suspected the man lived on-premises, probably in rooms behind the shop, but all the lights were off and the curtains **. ** He put his hands on the windows, staring at the tartan curtains, wishing they could suddenly vanish and he could peer inside. But he realised a meeting likely wouldn’t happen today, so he contented himself with the reassurance that soon, he’d know more about his new friend.

There were bin bins behind the shop, he wasn’t sure if they were all from the bookshop or from the neighbouring businesses, but he took a look. Inside were various sacks of rubbish. He resolved to breathe through his nose, as he sorted through them. They were the large black sacks you can buy a roll of in pound shops, completely generic. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, or how to look for it.

He got lucky. He spotted a small yellowing piece of paper poking out of a split bag and seized it. It appeared to be a leaf from a book, he didn’t recognise the book but the language was dated, lots of “thous” and the odd “thine”. Who even read this crap anymore? It had to be his. He grabbed the split bag, his hand protectively covering the hole in it and hauled himself out of the bin. Here, in the darkness, he fled, his prize now sitting in the passenger seat, and drove back home. He had work to do.

Here, in the warmth of his flat, he emptied the contents of the bin, on a beach towel he’d laid out on the floor. He sat cross-legged on the towel and inspected his haul.

He was correct in his assumption that the bookshop owner must live on-premises. A lot of these old shops had a flat upstairs or behind, properties were so much bigger back then. The rubbish did look like some was from the shop itself (a little reel of receipt paper, some flyers the shop must been given) but the rest was residential. He desperately wanted to examine the personal items first, but he knew there was something more pressing on his mind. He couldn’t keep thinking of the man as “Bookshop man” and here was proof that he wouldn’t need to. A letter addressed to Mr. Aziraphale Fell. A.Z. Fell, it had to be him. So the shop was named after him, after all. 

Aziraphale Fell. “Aziraphale,” he said aloud. 

Aziraphale. Aziraphale.  _ Aziraphale. _ It was a beautiful name. Exotic. Exquisite. Archaic. And befitting of such a man. It sounded like something very old and very kind but at the same time, something tropical, like the name of a sunny island or some rare, delicious fruit you could only grow in the most delicate of conditions. Yes, if Aziraphale was something you could grow on trees, he’d pluck it and take a solid bite into it, taste its inner sweetness, feeling the rich juices drip down his chin. He very much wanted to sample Aziraphale’s juices. He ran his finger over the piece of paper, not even taking in any of the words, it was something about the rent going up. That name at the top left corner seemed to call to him. He stroked the printed name with the tip of his finger. He tenderly placed the letter to one side and attended to the rest of the items.

The bookshop stuff didn’t hold his interest for long, except for a sheet of notepaper that contained handwriting which had to be Aziraphale’s. The neat, looping hand seemed friendly somehow, he looked down at the letters written in this unfamiliar style and pretended it was a love letter for him. But it wasn’t, it was just some list of books Crowley had never heard of. But it was still precious and he placed it with the letter.

Ah, here was the bin of personal items. He could hardly wait.

There were food packets, endless sweet packets (Aziraphale must have a sweet tooth. Crowley filed that away for later), an empty sample of aftershave (possibly torn from a magazine), used tissues (he could tell they were used by the way they were crumpled - unfortunately, he couldn’t spot any fluid gleaming on them), general rubbish like that. Anything plastic, glass or paper wouldn’t be in that bin, it would be disposed of differently. He sat back on his heels, feeling cheated. This wasn’t quite what he had in mind. Where were the ripped out pages from a diary? Where were the porn magazines (not that Aziraphale seemed the type to indulge in that sort of thing)? He would kill for just one measly used condom. Just something that told him anything about this man. Something that grounded him, made him seem human instead of the dream-like stranger from the train station. Something pale suddenly caught his attention, he thought at first it was fluff from a blanket. He grabbed it and saw it was hair, beautiful white-blond hair, a little puff of it, like it had been taken off a hairbrush. _Jackpot. _He curled it in his hand, stroking it with the other like it was a newborn chick. He’d stared at that perfect blond head for so long in his photograph, he’d recognise that hair anywhere. 

Crowley scooped his treasures up in the towel and put it all in a drawer. The hair he kept, taking it upstairs. To bed.

Now in his bedroom, he kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, settling on the bed. He could throw the covers over himself but he preferred not to. There was something deliciously sensual about lying on a bed, mostly unclothed, enjoying himself without fear of being seen. Or if there was a higher power, they’d have to watch him like this. 

He worked his way out of his skinny jeans until they were bunched around his ankles. He liked it like this, his ankles bound, pulled together, pushing his knees apart, his cock, balls and buttocks exposed. He wondered how Aziraphale liked to masturbate. Surely he must partake, even if he looked so repressed and uptight in public. Did he do it on his back? Did he sit, or do it in the shower? He seemed like a bath kind of person. Yes, indulgently sitting, water up to his chest, blurry in a haze of bubbles. 

He trailed his fingers down his cock, gently, more of a tickle, really. Just enough to make him tingle, to make goosebumps rise on his thighs. He pictured a big luxurious bath, one big enough for two and himself, approaching the tub with a towel wrapped around his waist. And Aziraphale, sitting, shyly looking up at him through the bubbles and steam, watching as Crowley dropped the towel and climbed in. Crowley would sink into the heat, feel the water rise as he settled in, slotting his legs besides Aziraphale’s. His hand was warm on his cock, palming it curiously as he pictured those lovely eyes watching him. Aziraphale, that sumptuous fat body soaped up and slippery wet under his fingers, Aziraphale, clean and naked exposed for him. Aziraphale, sticky and wet, their bodies squelching together obscenely, the feel of Crowley’s cock breaching his hole, the sloppy wet slick sounds that it made as it was filled and emptied and filled again.

He grabbed the clump of hair and stuffed it in his mouth. The hair was fine, soft, tufty like candy floss and he almost reflexively swallowed it, choked on it, tasted perfumed shampoo that could have been imaginary as he swallowed, feeling hair snag on the gaps between his teeth-

“Aziraphale!” he cried out, and his mind had been so filled with heat and wetness that it surprised him to feel actual wetness, semen coating his thighs.

After orgasm, he felt a little silly. The clarity you feel after release when the dopamine is spent and realisation crashes down on you once more. The semen on his thighs wasn’t hot, it was damp and lumpy. He felt foolish, naked, with his legs bare and cold air tickling his anus. The hair in his mouth was covered with drool and tickling the roof of his mouth, so he gently spat it into his hand, gazing at it fondly. He’d have to wash it very carefully to remove the smell of his saliva, and then leave it to dry. It would have to be a substitute until he was able to run his hands through those glorious blond curls in real life.

It wasn’t a wasted evening. He’d learnt Aziraphale’s name. Another of the puzzle pieces had slotted into place.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the response to this, especially my lovely commenters, I treasure every comment. Huge thanks to my regular reviewers, WishIWasAPrincipality, LuckyRedBalloon, Luna_RoseGold, GemNovelIdeas, LU5T_L1F3, BookClubBuddies, thank you so much! I love you like Crowley loves Aziraphale!


	5. I Just Want My Chance, But Only With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finally gets the courage to introduce himself to the man of his dreams.

The next day, he awoke, feeling rather placid and pleasantly sedated by the stupor of sleep, until he remembered what his plans were for that day. Today was the day he was going to meet Aziraphale. Formally. 

He’d already picked out an outfit to wear (holding each item of clothing up to Beelzebub to get her approval) and laid it out on a chair, the night before. He’d called in sick, and he texted Eric to let him know if he missed anything that day. He didn’t want to risk getting to the shop after work and finding it closed so pulling a sickie was necessary. 

He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror before he started the engine. He’d taken care to blow dry his hair today instead of letting it dry naturally, and it looked soft and lustrous. He’d gelled it, spiked it up, it looked good. He was wearing his usual kind of outfit, suit jacket over a t-shirt and skinny jeans, with a tie, but he’d accessorised with a thin gold chain necklace with a snake charm. The snake settled in the hollow of his throat, it almost looked like it was sleeping there. Reminded him of Beelz.

He’d taken a photo with his phone of Aziraphale’s bookshop door. Of course, he’d taken a lot of photos of the shop when he’d last been there, but this wasn’t for pleasure, this was for business. On the door, written in what he now knew to be Aziraphale’s handwriting, were the opening and closing hours, and they were so ridiculous, he knew he had to have a record of them or he’d be forever waiting outside that door, wanting to be let in. it was almost like Aziraphale didn’t want customers. He supposed he could relate to that. He’d had a lot of jobs in the past and retail was the worst.

* * *

His heart was racing in his chest, and it beat for Aziraphale, but he couldn’t lose his bottle now. He was about to meet him, face his true love. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

He spotted that pretty blond head immediately but looked away. He was just your average customer, interested in books, and reading and education and the possibility of more books to come. Certainly not bending the shop owner over his own desk and giving him a good seeing-to. He was the only customer, he noticed.

Crowley stepped in, hands in his pockets, trying to look ultra-casual. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like Aziraphale had noticed him. He was reading a book, his head bent, completely absorbed in what he was reading. Crowley felt himself relax and began to browse the aisles. He sneaked a few furtive glances at the bookshop owner, relishing this moment of being able to observe him unnoticed. Aziraphale was beautiful, as beautiful as he recalled, except in his memory, the man was laughing, his eyes were twinkling with mirth as he held out a card. In Crowley’s fantasies (or were they his memories), Aziraphale was there, in the station, this flash of white and stillness amongst the surging crowd of bodies, anchoring Crowley, keeping him grounded. He’d looked exciting. But here, sat in his shop, surrounded by old books and dust, there was something very comfortable and catlike in the way he hunched over the desk, his eyes flickering over the words, lips silently moving to form words. He didn’t seem to be aware of Crowley, of anything. Somebody may see him, this sweet, little man in tartan with a bow tie and an old book, and think him old-fashioned, uncool. But to Crowley, he was  _ thrilling.  _ He was a dandy from another time, a little piece of history for him to witness. The sight of him was so reassuring, he looked like the sort of man to offer Crowley tea and sympathy, to sit down next to him in front of a blazing fire, and wrap an afghan blanket around Crowley’s shoulders. He had a comforting aura and Crowley was swept up in it.

What Crowley knew about books could fit on a postage stamp and still have room left for the first chapter of _ Pride and Prejudice  _ but Aziraphale’s shop seemed...chaotic. Perhaps it was an ordered sense of chaos, a sort of chaos that made sense to Aziraphale and only Aziraphale. The books didn’t seem to be filed in any system that he could see, by title, by author. Even by colour. It was lucky he wasn’t looking for anything in particular or he’d have some difficulty.

“Can I help you find anything?” a lovely voice, softly-lilting and so  _ gentle,  _ drifted into his thoughts. He broke out of his reverie, to see Aziraphale looking at him over a pair of golden spectacles balanced on his nose. The sight was so _ cute, _ he was thoroughly enchanted and it took him a few seconds to realise he’d been asked a question.

He sauntered over, removing his sunglasses and slipping them into a side pocket. He wanted Aziraphale to see his eyes, everybody who saw them agreed they were striking. The irises were a deep gold, with thin black pupils. He fixed them on Aziraphale’s face and saw the man swallow. Good. 

“Do you have any books on how to make someone fall in love?” He regretted saying it but it was the first thing to pop into his head. It must have worked though because Aziraphale gave a little chuckle and stowed his book away, behind the desk. Crowley smiled in satisfaction. He had his attention now.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale said, rising from his chair to lean over the desk. This was going perfectly. And the view was lovely. “I suppose you’ve already tried the usual tricks - dinner and a show?”

Crowley grinned winningly. “He’s not the usual sort of man.”

“Ah, interesting...” Aziraphale seemed to be mulling on that, bless him, he was really trying to think of a book that could help Crowley. He seemed deep in thought, so Crowley risked a step slightly behind the desk, so he could check out the sight of the man bent over it. 

That big lush arse was on display, covered in cream coloured trousers that Crowley wanted to rip off with his teeth. What a thing, pointed right at him. It was a sight that could render Sir-Mix-A-Lot speechless. He wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees and bury his face in it. He wanted to -

“- _ Win Friends And Influence People? _ ” Aziraphale’s voice broke through his thoughts. Crowley jumped, he hadn’t realised Aziraphale was speaking. “By Dale Carnegie. I’m sure I have a copy somewhere. I’m truly sorry, I don’t tend to stock self-help books.”

“Uh, that sounds great,” Crowley said, leaping back to his original position, back in front of the counter. Aziraphale didn’t seem to have noticed, and he tottered off, humming softly to himself as he searched the aisles.

“Not that, no, not here - ah, here we go!” He brandished the book triumphantly, smiling proudly. Crowley’s heart felt like it had grown a few sizes, it was pushing against his ribs.

Aziraphale returned to the desk and showed it to Crowley. He barely gave the cover a glance and didn’t look at the price label, already reaching for his wallet.

“What do I owe you?”

Aziraphale blushed, and the sight of the blood rushing to his face made _ Crowley’s  _ blood rush significantly lower. Thank Christ for the counter. “It’s an old book and...you could probably find this cheaper online…”

“You know you’re going about this transaction thing backwards, right?”

Aziraphale looked up at him, those big eyes beseeching. “I…I know. I just like having books. I don’t really enjoy parting with them.”

Aziraphale didn’t know it, looking up at Crowley with those guilty eyes, but he’d made himself defenceless. He may as well have lain on his back with his belly in the air, a white flag hanging from his mouth. He’d given Crowley an “in” and that wasn’t something Crowley would forget.

Crowley hummed thoughtfully, leaning on the desk on his elbows. Aziraphale was leaning opposite, and his elbow was so close to Crowley’s. Crowley lightly touched it with his, and was rewarded with a little  _ frisson  _ of excitement. “The thing is, I’d  _ really _ like to read this book. Maybe...I could reserve it?”

“Reserve it?”

“Yeah, I’ll give you some cash-” He withdrew a tenner from his pocket (the book cost £6.99 apparently and Aziraphale was right, Crowley could find that online for far cheaper) and slid it across the desk. Aziraphale eyed it but made no move for it. “- but that’s on the condition that I can come here and read it whenever I want. Or whenever you’re open. How does that sound?”

Aziraphale smiled, still pink in the cheeks.That smile was like the sun emerging from the clouds, Crowley felt bathed in its glow. “That sounds fine.” He typed a few things into the register and placed the banknote inside. The register ground out a receipt and he passed it to Crowley, along with his change.

When their fingers touched over the slip of paper, Crowley felt that tingle of electricity again. He glanced at Aziraphale’s face but was unable to determine if he’d felt it too.

“Will you be open tomorrow?”

“Possibly,” Aziraphale said coyly.

“At, say, one o’clock?”

“Seems likely,”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow!” Crowley turned and began to walk away.

As he was opening the door, he heard a sunny “Thank you!”

“No angel thank _ you, _ ” Crowley muttered under his breath. The door closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still obsessed with Good Omens and I think I will be for a long time, so it would be really cool to have some fandom friends to discuss the show with and talk about fics. If you're interested, let me know, I'd love to have some cool people to fangirl with!


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